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Crushaholic!

Have you ever had the kind of crush that just kind of sneaks up on you, like one too many cocktails that seemed fruity and girlish enough, but suddenly you're laughing and feeling a little sick at the same time, and before you know it, the room is spinning? The kind of crush that, when the delicious creature who is the cause of all your discomfort is near, makes you feel both elated and disoriented, and as if the fine line between sanity and insanity could be precisely measured by the distance between your teeth, and a very particular scrumptious, meaty forearm?

I'm talking about the kind of feeling that makes you embarrassed, silent and evasive exactly when you most want to be charming, vivacious and surest of your powers. The sort that, when you escape from a disturbing proximity to the person in question, you feel as if you've just eaten so much rich, dark chocolate cake that it doesn't even taste good anymore, but it's there, and you can't stop eating it. I mean the crush that leaves you feeling simultaneously hot-blooded and clammy all over; like an absolute flibbertegibbet who's totally paralysed, and meanwhile the object of your sudden brimming-over of libidinous fervor is absolutely oblivious to the slings and arrows of your outrageous misfortune.

Ever had one like that?

Lord knows, that kind of crush is ridiculous. Sure, it starts out slowly and seems harmless enough, but once it takes root? Woah, Nelly. I can assure you, the torture is acute.

Mr. Johnso knows of my high regard for him, and while it is true that if I had even the smallest prayer of breaking me off a piece of that I wouldn't be typing this message to you now; I would be putting that fine stallion through his paces. (ROWR!)

In short, Ms. H., if I had "HAD THAT" as you like to put it, I would not be secretive. Your efforts to out me could never outpace my boasting of a conquest that impressive. I would get a t-shirt with Mr. Johnso's face on it, and the words "I done HAD THAT!" written beneath it.

Alas, Mr. Johnso, the triple shot of gin notwithstanding, is not the target of my sudden and discomforting effulgence of amorous impulse. The flame I carry for Mr Johnso is a steady one, but it is not the inferno of which I speak.

Good try, but stop trying to divert us from the truth: YOU are the one who loves Mr. Johnso with the white hot intensity of 1000 burning suns.